


an interim of a thousand years

by viverella



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Meeting Again, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Reminiscing, a whooooole lot of pining, reconnecting, the day I write a fic without any of that is the day I die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viverella/pseuds/viverella
Summary: Sometimes, five years is just five years. Sometimes, it’s a lifetime.Five years later, five years of absence, and Bokuto’s still learning. That there are some things that exist in the world that can be fixed even after they’re broken. That things, maybe, have always been a lot simpler than he’s given them credit for. That promises matter, but keeping them is a whole different ballgame.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 47
Kudos: 386





	an interim of a thousand years

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this is decidedly _not_ the fic I've been meaning to finish writing these past few weeks, but over the past month or so I managed to (a) catch up on the haikyuu manga and (b) promptly proceed to lose my mind wondering what akaashi could possibly be doing these days and this is apparently the only way I knew how to deal with that but alas I'm a Slow Writer and chapter 381 hit before I finished writing this so this is mostly superfluous now, though it's been edited to be nudged ever so slightly in the direction of canon compliance. but anyway I’ve been Obsessed with this Concept so here goes nothing
> 
> I've been constantly torn between the idea of the two of them staying super close over the years and falling in love and everything's just peachy and the idea of meeting someone at the wrong time and then remeeting them at the right one [like in that one drawing](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bs-zDD9FJOl/) but when in doubt, write the angstier version I guess
> 
> enjoy!! 
> 
> (title borrowed from the poem quoted in part below)

_Though you have never possessed me  
I have belonged to you since the beginning of time  
And sleepily I sit on your chair beside you  
Leaning against your shoulder  
And your careless arm across my back gesticulates  
As your indisputable male voice roars  
Through my brain and my body  
Arguing "Dynamic Decomposition"  
Of which I understand nothing  
[…]  
Across an interval of a thousand miles  
An interim of a thousand years  
But you who make more noise than any man in the world when you clear your throat  
Deafening wake me  
And I catch the thread of the argument_

— From One O’clock at Night by Mina Loy

It goes a little like this: 

Bokuto gets a text from Konoha on a Thursday evening at the tail end of February as he’s arriving home after practice, asking him if he’s free and wants to go get drinks with his former high school teammates. There’s a quorum of people who are all in town, Konoha says, and it’s been forever since they all last hung out, and would the Great and Famous Bokuto Koutarou like to grace them all with his presence. It’s been a long week and Bokuto’s tired and he’d really been planning to have a night in catching up on some shows he’s gotten behind on, but he finds himself laughing aloud as he reads Konoha’s text and decides that maybe he hasn’t been as good as he should’ve been lately at minding the things in his life outside of volleyball. 

It’ll be nice, he thinks, to see all of them again. It’s always been fun, spending time with the old team, and he could always use a little more fun in his life. 

It goes a little like this:

Bokuto’s at a bar talking to Komi and Sarukui about a movie he saw last week and doesn’t get what all the hype is about, Komi insisting that no, really, the hype _is_ that it’s so bad that it’s actually kind of amazing, and out of the corner of his eye, Bokuto sees Konoha crane his neck to see across the crowded room and wave to someone. 

“Akaashi!” Konoha calls out, and Bokuto realizes that he hasn’t heard that name in years. 

Bokuto whirls around maybe too quickly, still more motion than anything else, to look over to where Konoha is gesturing and sure enough, there Akaashi is, and Bokuto swears his entire world freezes for just a moment. 

If this were a movie, Bokuto would probably think to himself that nothing has changed, that he’s suddenly thrown back into being sixteen again and meeting a boy who’d end up changing the course of his life forever, that the memory of taking the country by storm to stand at the very top of everything is still as fresh in his mind as the day it happened. If this were a movie, Bokuto would probably swear that it’d been just yesterday that he last saw Akaashi, would think to himself that he can’t believe it’s been so long since they last saw each other, since they’ve even spoken. But this isn’t a movie, and Bokuto’s twenty-three now and he hasn’t seen Akaashi since he was a small handful of months out of high school, and the weight of all that time all of a sudden hangs heavily on his shoulders. Akaashi’s still got that mess of inky-black hair and the same cool, piercing eyes, hidden now behind thick-framed glasses, but there’s something about him, something Bokuto can’t quite put his finger on, that’s undeniably different. There’s something steadier about the way he carries himself as he weaves through the crowd to get to them, something freer about how he smiles and waves a little in greeting as he draws near. There’s something at once softer about him, the slope of his shoulders, the curve of his mouth, and also sharper too, the planes of his cheekbones, the slant of his eyes. Akaashi’s gaze lands on Bokuto, and it’s like he’s meeting Akaashi for the first time all over again. 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto exclaims in surprise, almost in wonder, a thousand things right on the tip of his tongue, trapped behind his teeth. 

Akaashi looks at him, an edge of that smile still lingering in his expression, so much and so little like how he used to look at Bokuto back when they were in high school, and says, a quiet foil still against Bokuto’s outburst, “Hello, Bokuto-san.”

It goes a little like this: 

Bokuto looks up one day, on a Thursday in February after practice at a bar surrounded by the people who used to be the beginning and end of his entire world, and realizes that years have flown by, and he’s barely even noticed. Bokuto looks up and sees Akaashi again and the time between them is suddenly thrown into stark relief against the backdrop of what used to be, and he realizes that he’s gotten so caught up in his own life that the impossible has happened. 

Bokuto looks up one day and realizes that the person standing in front of him, the person he used to call his best friend in the whole universe, the person who knew him better than anyone else, ever, is almost a stranger to him, and somehow, Akaashi’s still, _still_ brilliant and beautiful and everything he’s ever wanted.  
  


* * *

  
Bokuto still remembers the last time they stood on the court next to each other, that last January, remembers feeling, at the end of the day, a little like if he didn’t pay enough attention, he’d miss something important. 

_Our last game_ , he remembers thinking. _This is it. This is what it’s all been for._

Bokuto remembers how, after the game ended, after all the cheering and the festivities and being crowned the best in the nation (finally, _finally_ , he remembers thinking), he’d felt the inexplicable urge to linger. He’d stood out on the center court, the hall now empty of spectators, the net taken down, lights half-dimmed, and closed his eyes, hands in his pockets, trying to remember everything. The squeak of shoes across the floor. The heft of the ball against his palm when he’d hit that last spike. The roar of the crowd in his ears as his teammates had stormed the court. He’d meant it when he’d said to Akaashi that nothing about this tournament felt final, that he’d always known he’d be only at the beginning of everything even by the end of this day, but there had been this ache setting up shop behind his ribs anyways, something a little bittersweet, something like nostalgia. 

He remembers Akaashi coming to find him, remembers how Akaashi spoke only in hushed tones like he, too, felt a little bit of this inexplicable reverence that had settled in Bokuto’s chest.

“Hey,” Akaashi had said, and Bokuto had opened his eyes again. “We’re heading out soon.” A beat, and then, just a little bit quieter, “What are you doing?”

Akaashi always had this way of asking him like he’d been waiting for the answer, like whatever it was would always have been important, and Bokuto had sort of known, even then, that there were many things in the world that maybe only he alone thought were worth losing sleep over, but Akaashi had never made him feel that way. _What are you doing?_ he’d ask and mean it. _What are you thinking about?_ he’d ask, and he’d listen patiently every time, like he actually wanted to understand. 

“I just don’t want to forget,” Bokuto had said, staring out at the empty court and feeling something heavy settle in his stomach. “This feeling. This team.”

Akaashi had hummed quietly, thoughtfully, and when Bokuto had turned to look at him, he’d found Akaashi looking out over the empty arena too, the low lighting catching on the gentle slope of his nose. After days of living with tension wound tight between his shoulders, Akaashi had looked calm and centered again and maybe, Bokuto had thought to himself, maybe a little wistful too. 

“I’m glad,” Bokuto had said suddenly, the words escaping him faster than he could think. “That I got to do this with you.”

Bokuto remembers Akaashi slowly turning his head to look at him, those bright, piercing eyes meeting his, and Bokuto remembers holding his breath, just a little. Akaashi had looked at him for a long moment, a soft something Bokuto couldn’t put a name to draped over his features, and then he’d smiled, that gentle, easy thing that pulled at his mouth a little crookedly, pressed the barest hint of a dimple into one cheek. 

“I’m glad too,” Akaashi had said, almost in a whisper. 

Bokuto remembers an impulse rising up through his chest to the back of his throat, the impulse to reach out, to touch, to be held. There had been a moment, and Akaashi had looked at Bokuto, smiling and warm and perfect, and the thought had flashed through Bokuto’s mind that _this is something I can never get back_. 

And then Akaashi had ducked his chin and looked away, and Bokuto hadn’t been sure if he’d just been imagining everything. 

“We should go,” Akaashi had said. “You don’t want to get left behind, do you?”

It had been an offhand question, long forgotten by the end of the day, but back then, Bokuto had believed that something like that wouldn’t ever be possible. Back then, he’d believed in the certainty of whatever it was that existed between them. Back then, he’d never imagined that Akaashi would be someone he’d look at and be caught halfway between the urge to chase him down and run away every single time.  
  


* * *

  
In another life, another version of the world maybe, a version where Bokuto didn’t let things slip through his fingers in his haste to get to the destination at the end of the road, there exists a Bokuto who would run up and pull Akaashi into hug like always, and that always would still feel like always. In another version of the world, there exists an Akaashi who would roll his eyes and tell him to stop being so dramatic, because it’s not like they didn’t see each other just the other day, but he’d hug Bokuto back anyways. 

This isn’t that version of the world. 

In this version of the world, Akaashi’s eyes slide off of Bokuto as quickly as they land on him, like a ripple on the surface of a lake, as he turns to greet everyone else. Bokuto feels a little like he’s watching a movie of what could’ve been his life, had he made slightly different choices, as Akaashi goes around and chats with the others in a way that makes it obvious, even to Bokuto, that it’s been far, far less than five years since Akaashi’s last seen the lot of them. Akaashi still absently wrings his hands a little as he talks and he’s still got that same dry sense of humor, but there’s something easier about the way he laughs, like it isn’t a hard-won prize but rather something more natural, something he’s grown into. Bokuto wonders what the past few years have been like for Akaashi, wonders what’s happened to shape him into the person he is today, wonders who that person even is. 

About an hour into the night, Akaashi excuses himself and ducks out to the back patio of the bar, and Bokuto doesn’t quite hear what he says (he has a call to make, maybe, or just needs a breath of fresh air), but he ends up following a few minutes later anyways, unable to stop himself. There’s something that Bokuto knows he needs to say, something that’ll make it feel less like he’s walking on thin ice every time Akaashi happens to glance his way, and even though he doesn’t really know what that something is, even though it feels like this isn’t really the time or the place, he keeps thinking to himself, _but if not now, when?_ Thinks, even though he doesn’t know what for, _I might already be too late._

It’s a chilly night, even for late February, and the air nips a little at the tips of Bokuto’s ears as he steps outside. In the summer, the owners of the bar dress this place up with string lights and bring out big wooden tables to make it like a sort of beer garden so people can enjoy a drink under the stars, but tonight, Bokuto finds the space almost empty, just a few people talking at the far end of the small outdoor patio. And Akaashi, leaning back against the wall a few feet away from the door, a cigarette dangling from his long fingers. He doesn’t move or look over when Bokuto lets the door swing shut behind him, but Bokuto thinks that he can still spot that minute shift in Akaashi’s expression that means that he’s heard all the same. 

For a moment, Bokuto doesn’t know what to say, realizing that he’s just rushed headlong into another thing without fully thinking it through, but every second Akaashi spends not looking at him sits heavier and heavier on Bokuto, and he ends up blurting out the first thing he can think of, if only to get Akaashi to finally look his way. 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Bokuto says.

Akaashi glances at Bokuto out of the corner of his eye and shrugs, bringing the cigarette up to his mouth. “Well, it’s been a few years,” he says smoothly, and Bokuto thinks that he can spy the corner of Akaashi’s mouth pulling up, like it’s all tongue-in-cheek. “I suspect there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me anymore.”

The way Akaashi says it, there’s no malice in his voice, because it’s just the simple truth, laid out plainly the way Akaashi’s always been best at, but Bokuto finds himself shivering involuntarily anyways, suddenly very cold. He shoves his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight, looking down at his feet and feeling unsteady and uncertain. It’s been a long time, he thinks to himself, since they’ve been like this, letting the silence stretch out between them, and he finds that the shape of it all feels unwieldy and awkward after years without practice. 

“I hear you’re doing well,” Akaashi says a moment later, and Bokuto jerks his head up again. Akaashi’s smiling at him now, and it’s almost as warm as Bokuto remembers. “Congrats on going pro.”

Bokuto laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, thanks,” he says and hates that he can’t find anything more to say. He never used to be at a loss for words around Akaashi. He grins at Akaashi and says brightly, like he can will the clock backwards if he just pretends hard enough that nothing’s changed, “Though to be honest, I still can’t really tell if our setter likes me or not.”

Akaashi lets out a breath of a laugh, turning his head up to gaze up at the night sky. “Yeah, well, either way you’re in good hands, I’d think,” he says slowly, thoughtfully. “Miya Atsumu takes good care of his hitters.”

Bokuto feels something ease in his chest, and he wonders if it really could always have been this easy, finding the common ground like they’re talking strategy over lunch again, Bokuto stealing bites from Akaashi’s bento and Akaashi pretending to be mad about it until Bokuto went and bought him melon bread. 

“Yeah,” Bokuto says, feeling a little warm for the first time all night. “Yeah, that’s true.” 

Akaashi hums and brings his cigarette back up to his mouth, taking a long drag and exhaling in curling tendrils of white smoke. The ambient city light around them makes Akaashi’s face look soft and delicate (except Akaashi’s not delicate, and he’s never been, and Bokuto thinks maybe he’s always liked Akaashi’s sharp edges the best anyways). Bokuto rocks back on his heels a little.

“Do you still play?” he asks, feeling that old itch crawling up his spine again ( _please, please,_ please _, Akaashi, toss for me!_ ). He clenches his hands into fists in his pockets.

Akaashi’s mouth slides into a small smile, and Bokuto could almost swear it looks a little sad but he can’t fathom why a question like that would make Akaashi sad, and he thinks to himself that it must be a trick of the light.

“No,” Akaashi says quietly. “Not seriously, anyway. I quit after high school.”

“ _What?_ ” Bokuto exclaims, the words escaping him more quickly than he can think. His voice echoes around the small, quiet space. “Why? You were so good.”

The smile on Akaashi’s face falters for just a brief fraction of a second, and Bokuto starts to suspect that he wasn’t just seeing things after all, but just knowing doesn’t mean that he knows how to make heads or tails of it. Akaashi shrugs. He drops his cigarette on the ground and crushes it beneath the heel of his shoe. 

“I guess I just had a feeling,” Akaashi says vaguely, “That I’d just be trying to chase down something that was already in my past.” 

Akaashi speaks slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. Bokuto finds himself, not for the first time, casting out for any hint as to what Akaashi’s talking about, feeling just half a step too slow. It’s a feeling, Bokuto realizes, that he hasn’t felt in some time, maybe years. It’s a feeling, he realizes, that hurts more than he remembers. His mind races, and Akaashi stays perfectly still. 

After a beat, Akaashi lets his head tip to the side a little to meet Bokuto’s eyes, the corner of his mouth curling up into that sly smirk again, almost like that look he used to give Bokuto when there was a joke that only he’d get, only sharper somehow, maybe a little less kind, and says, “I don’t like playing games I know I’m going to lose.”

For one brief second, Bokuto can’t breathe, the tension drawing up again in his chest, tucked between his ribs. There’s something Akaashi’s trying to say, he knows, that he can’t quite pick up the thread of, and it’s maybe the worst kind of knowing, knowing that this, right here, right in front of him, is important but not knowing what _this_ is, exactly. And the thing is, Bokuto’s always known that Akaashi’s smarter than him, cleverer, more careful in the way that he thinks, but he doesn’t remember it feeling like this, like he’s been left trying to see through the wrong side of a one-way mirror. 

“So, you out there changing the world, then?” Bokuto asks lightly, more to say something than anything else, because he doesn’t know what else to do with the feeling in his chest (and maybe, he thinks, he’s never really known what to do with it, and that’s the root of the problem, in the end), and anyway, if he’s ever been certain of one thing, it’s that Akaashi was always going to do something amazing with his life, because he’s always been so smart and so driven and he works harder at the things he wants than anyone Bokuto knows. 

Akaashi pushes himself off of the wall and lets out a soft laugh. “If you call staying up till the sun rises writing papers changing the world, then yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair absently, brushing his bangs aside as he walks back towards the door to head back inside. Bokuto can’t quite get used to the edge to Akaashi’s smile that he swears wasn’t there when they were still in high school.

Bokuto laughs too, caught a little off-guard. It _almost_ feels like old times again, but it’s just left of what Bokuto remembers, and he thinks that he kind of hates that. 

“It’s good to see you,” Akaashi says softly, just over the wall of noise that spills out as he opens the door to go back inside. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto says lamely, the quiet timbre of Akaashi’s voice echoing in his ears. The feeling sitting squarely in his chest is threatening to spill over again, and before Akaashi gets far, Bokuto calls out, “Hey, Akaashi?” (Akaashi stops and turns and Bokuto’s stomach does this weird, swooping thing) “Can I maybe call you sometime? Maybe we could get coffee or lunch or something. Catch up.”

Akaashi holds Bokuto’s gaze for a long moment and says nothing, and Bokuto feels an odd sort of jitteriness fill his veins, a little like how he gets right before games, only it feels more scary than exciting. He wonders if he’s going to be able to feel like he’s standing on stable ground for longer than a few minutes at a time when Akaashi looks at him. 

“Only if you want to,” Akaashi says, his words measured. He smiles, and for whatever reason, it makes Bokuto’s stomach drop. “Don’t feel like you have to or feel guilty about not or anything. People grow up and they grow apart. It happens. That’s fine. You don’t have to force the issue.”

Bokuto blinks. “Right,” he says, even though that’s not really what he means, even though he wants to say that that’s not it, that it’s not something he’s making himself do out of some sense of obligation, that he just wants his friend back in his life again because he’s realizing that he’s missed Akaashi more than he’s really thought about (or maybe, he thinks, he just misses the memory of who Akaashi used to be to him, of who he still finds himself wanting Akaashi to be, after all this time, and that feels a little worse, somehow).  
  


* * *

  
The last time Bokuto felt like Akaashi was his, his in that greedy, selfish way that he’d maybe thought back then was the only way to want anything, it was the day he graduated from high school, before he ran off to go chase his dreams, before Fukuroudani became a place he thought of as _over there_ instead of _here_. Bokuto remembers the cherry blossoms raining down around campus, remembers throwing them in the air over and over like confetti. He remembers Akaashi rolling his eyes, holding his blazer over his head like a makeshift umbrella, but he remembers, too, the way Akaashi couldn’t stop himself from smiling, just a little, as Bokuto gathered up handful after handful to throw at their friends after the graduation ceremony. 

By the end of the day, he’d gotten delicate pink petals stuck all through his hair and under the collar of his shirt, and he’d spent half an hour with his head in Akaashi’s lap as Akaashi carefully picked through his hair to get them all out. It had been a warm day for mid-March, and they’d sat outside under one of the trees, and Bokuto remembers almost wanting to tell Akaashi that it didn’t matter, that he didn’t really mind that his hair was a bit of a mess, because who was he trying to impress anyways. But there had been something comforting in the feel of Akaashi’s sure fingers combing through his hair, in the way Akaashi’s eyebrows drew together just so when he was concentrating on something, so Bokuto hadn’t said anything and just stared at the way the dappled sunlight lit a halo around Akaashi’s head. 

There had been a part of him, Bokuto still remembers, that had wanted this moment to last forever, because there had been something about it that felt safe, felt like things were supposed to be that way, like they were in their own little bubble, forever protected from the outside world. He’d often been restless and fidgety back then, barely able to sit still for long enough to get through one class on a good day, but he’d found himself holding his breath, almost afraid to move, like the moment could burst if he did the wrong thing. And he wasn’t really great at not doing the wrong thing. 

But at the other end of that moment, there was something he’d felt like he had to say, like if he didn’t he’d regret it for the rest of his life, and for however many mistakes he made, for however much he stumbled his way through so many things, he’d still always been better at the doing of things than saying, especially for the things that mattered the most. And every time he’d tried to put words to this feeling living under his skin, every time he felt like he needed to say something because he’d explode if he didn’t, it’d come out a little clumsily, a little like this:

“Hey Akaashi. Let’s stay friends forever, ’kay?”

He’d blurted it out without thinking about it, and he wasn’t in the practice of regretting things back then, even when Akaashi’s hands stilled in his hair, even as Akaashi arched one elegant eyebrow up, questioning. Bokuto just grinned up at him. 

“Forever’s an awfully long time, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi had said, and even though his voice had been firm, he hadn’t really sounded like he’d meant it. Akaashi did that a lot. “You shouldn’t get in the habit of making promises you can’t keep.”

Bokuto had sat up suddenly then, turning so he was sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Akaashi. A flurry of cherry petals had followed him, floating gently down around him.

“I’m serious,” Bokuto had said, leaning into Akaashi’s space so Akaashi couldn’t miss just how serious he’d been about the whole thing. It had felt like such an easy thing to promise at the time, so obvious, and he said, meaning every word, “I like being friends with you. It’s fun. That’s what life’s all about isn’t it? Having lots and lots of fun?”

There had been a lot of people back in high school who described Akaashi as cold or hard to read or, at their meanest, boring and stiff, but Bokuto had never thought so, not for a second. Because for as guarded as Akaashi tended to be about the things that sat close to his heart, he was still quick to smile, if you knew how to look for it, quick to laugh, if you knew just what to say. _Akaashi’s the nicest person I know_ , Bokuto had said to someone once, and even though they’d laughed and looked at him like he’d missed some big point, Bokuto still stood by it, because just because Akaashi’s kindness didn’t come out in the ways that people expected didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Akaashi, who didn’t say many flowery things but always stayed late if Bokuto asked to practice and practice and practice, even if he had a test the next day. Akaashi, who never embellished anything but always had room under his umbrella for Bokuto on rainy days. Akaashi, who would never really say as much, but still sometimes looked at Bokuto like this, soft and warm and open like there wasn’t a single thing he wouldn’t have done for Bokuto. Bokuto had thought to himself then that he’d give Akaashi the whole world to keep Akaashi looking at him just like that. 

“Yeah,” Akaashi had said, reaching over to absently brush a few more flowers out of Bokuto’s hair. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Bokuto had grinned and leaned in a little closer. “So,” he’d said eagerly, “Promise?”

Akaashi had laughed, soft and small and just under his breath, and stood up, dusting off his pants. 

“Yes, Bokuto-san, I promise,” Akaashi had said quietly, and Bokuto remembers the way he’d felt a little like his chest was being squeezed by something unseen. Akaashi held out his hand for Bokuto to take, and said, “Come on. We’ll be late for your graduation party.”

Bokuto had let Akaashi help him up, his fingertips catching a little on the athletic tape wrapped around Akaashi’s index finger, and he’d had a moment when he’d realized how odd it all seemed to him, that Akaashi would keep playing volleyball here at Fukuroudani without him. And he’d known, in some vague, abstract way, that this was always going to happen, that on this day of all days it should’ve been obvious, but as they’d walked across the school grounds to the club room for the final sending off of everyone in Bokuto’s year, that’s when it had all hit him. That he wasn’t coming back to this place. That it was really all over. That this – Akaashi walking by his side across campus, the comfortable silence that stretched between them that always seemed to speak volumes, the amused semi-smile on Akaashi’s face as Bokuto held onto his hand and pretended like he knew how to read palms – this would all be in the past. 

_But he promised_ , Bokuto remembers thinking to himself. _Akaashi always keeps his promises._

And back then, that had always seemed like it would be enough.  
  


* * *

  
Akaashi makes as if to leave the bar not half an hour after coming back inside from the back patio, insisting even as the others protest that he really, really does have to go. He has class first thing in the morning tomorrow, bright and early at eight-thirty, he says, and no amount of persuading will get him to give up the precious few hours of sleep he’ll get before he has to schlep to campus. There’s a lot of grumbling and half-hearted pouting and Komi teasing Akaashi for being the only one of them still in school, laughing and elbowing Akaashi in the ribs, and Akaashi rolls his eyes, mock annoyed. When Akaashi’s eyes land on him again, Bokuto feels a jolt shoot down his spine and smiles widely, half hoping that Akaashi will say something to him, something witty and sly and just for him like he used to sometimes, a joke only he’d get, but Akaashi just offers a small smile of his own and his eyes slide off of Bokuto again. 

“Hey,” Bokuto hears Konoha say to Akaashi as Akaashi starts heading out. Konoha walks with Akaashi halfway to the exit, asking, “You’re still free on Tuesday, right? We’ll be out a setter if you’re not there.”

Bokuto can’t hear what Akaashi says over the chatter of everyone in the bar around him, but Akaashi must agree, because Konoha’s grinning now and sending Akaashi off with a friendly clap of his hand to Akaashi’s back and a wave. 

The whole thing makes Bokuto’s insides squirm for a reason he can’t place, and he hears himself making his own excuses to leave before he can think better of it and races out after Akaashi into the chilly night. It strikes him as he’s ducking out the door that it must look odd, Bokuto very obviously trying to chase Akaashi down, but whatever spectacle he may or may not be making is the farthest thing from his mind (it strikes him a moment later that maybe it actually doesn’t look so odd after all, because this is the sort of thing Bokuto spent his entire last two years at Fukuroudani doing, and it makes his bones ache knowing that the reason he even thought it in the first place almost certainly has something to do with the fact that he’s so hyper aware of every little detail that’s changed between them). 

There’s an answer he needs to find, Bokuto thinks to himself as he looks this way and that, trying to figure out where Akaashi went, even if he has no idea what the question even is. Akaashi’s just down the block, hands in the pockets for his coat and curled in on himself a little against the chill (Akaashi was never really good at handling the cold, Bokuto remembers suddenly, and the thought leaves him a little winded). Bokuto jogs down the block to catch up to him before he can get too far away. 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto calls out and feels a small surge of triumph as Akaashi pauses and turns halfway around to look at him. 

Akaashi raises an eyebrow at him, and Bokuto thinks that over the past few years, Akaashi’s really perfected that balance between polite interest and mild exasperation ( _what now?_ ). 

“You going to the train station?” Bokuto asks as he comes up to a stop next to Akaashi. 

Akaashi nods. “I’ve got a date with my bed,” he says, and Bokuto thinks that he maybe sounds like he’s saying it in jest like he used to make offhand comments, almost. 

Bokuto flashes a smile, as bright as he knows how. “I’ll walk you,” he offers, a tiny tremor of anxiety running across his skin as soon as he says it. 

Akaashi lets out a measured breath and says, “That’s really not necessary, Bokuto-san. I can see myself home just fine.”

And Bokuto had half-expected that to be Akaashi’s answer, because that had been Akaashi’s answer to a lot of trivial things Bokuto offered him through the years, but for whatever reason, it stings a little more than he’d been anticipating. Bokuto squares his shoulders and hopes that his smile hasn’t wavered. 

“I want to,” he says. 

There’s a moment when Akaashi just looks at him, eyebrows drawing together a tick like he’s looking for something, like he’s trying to decide something, and Bokuto almost fears what he’d never been afraid of back in high school, that Akaashi will say no and that will be that. But then, Akaashi’s expression smooths over and he nods once and turns to keep walking again. 

“Okay,” Akaashi says, and it’s probably a little sad that it feels like such a significant victory. 

Bokuto falls into step easily beside Akaashi, finding that the muscle memory is still there despite the years away, and he thinks about the last time they walked together somewhere, just after Akaashi started his third year, just before that year’s Interhigh qualifier finals, Akaashi quiet in a way that Bokuto knew meant he was close to coming apart at the seams from nerves. Akaashi now is still quiet but palpably different, the still air between them feeling oddly tense for entirely new reasons, for reasons Bokuto can only half-guess at, and Bokuto has to remind himself to breathe. 

“Were you and Konoha talking about volleyball?” Bokuto asks, for lack of anything better. This has always felt safe, like neutral territory they can both still stand on. “I thought you said you didn’t play anymore.”

Akaashi shrugs and ducks his chin a little deeper into the collar of his coat as a cold breeze blows through the area. “It’s just a local recreational league,” he says simply. “And it’s not like I play all the time. I’m just their backup setter when their usual guy can’t make it.”

Bokuto’s eyes widen. “Backup?” he exclaims on instinct alone, because Akaashi’s always given everything to everything he’s done, because Bokuto can’t imagine a version of the world where Akaashi is second to anyone. “But you’re so good. You’re a _national champion_ , Akaashi – do they even know that?”

Akaashi lets out a huff of a breath that maybe, if they hadn’t drifted so far from each other over the years, would’ve been a laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up just a little. Bokuto finds himself wanting to hear Akaashi laugh for real again, the kind that crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the kind that matters. 

“I’m sure they do,” Akaashi says. He smiles a little then like he’s remembering an inside joke that Bokuto realizes he must now be an outsider to. “Konoha-san likes reminding our teammates of that when they get on his case for making a mistake. Not that anyone cares that much anymore. It’s all sort of ancient history by now.”

And the thing is, Akaashi’s right, in a way, because it’s been years and all of them have either moved on to other things or moved beyond to things that exist at a much larger scale, and all the things that seemed like the beginning and end of the entire world in high school have been put into better perspective, and Bokuto _knows_ that, he really does, but something about the way Akaashi says it sits heavily in Bokuto’s stomach. It reminds him a little of that last tournament and Akaashi getting wound tighter and tighter by stress like a spring until he’d snapped. It reminds him a little of the only version of Akaashi he can say he doesn’t like. 

“But—,” Bokuto says and then realizes that he doesn’t know what the rest of the sentence is. 

Akaashi looks at him, his head angled three-quarters of the way towards Bokuto, assessing, like he’s searching for the answer to something he hasn’t asked. The city around them is lit up in brilliant swathes of bright light, neons from flickering signs melding with the soft glow of the streetlamps, painting Akaashi’s skin in a wash of color. His eyes look almost dark in this light, closer to black than the grey-blue Bokuto knows they are, and as he peeks up at Bokuto through his long eyelashes, Bokuto feels his heart stutter in his chest, a feeling that’s so familiar and yet so foreign after so many years, out of practice holding this thing in his chest that he never was able to put a name to when he was sixteen (and seventeen and eighteen) and stupid and probably already a little too far gone. Like this, Akaashi looks almost unreal, like the kind of thing that only exists in dreams, like if Bokuto blinked, it could all disappear. Akaashi looks away.

“It’s not like I was ever going to make a career of volleyball or anything,” Akaashi says crisply. “No need to pity me.”

“I’m not—,” Bokuto says, and then stops. _Breathe_. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. You loved volleyball. And you were pretty amazing at it too.”

Akaashi smiles that same smile from earlier in the night, the one that makes Bokuto feel a little sad and heavy, and shakes his head. 

“Well, that’s all a part of growing up isn’t it? We all have to let go of some of the things we love sooner or later,” Akaashi says. He glances at Bokuto out of the corner of his eye and lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Some things just aren’t meant to be.”

Akaashi’s got that edge to his voice again, a careful tone that Bokuto still recognizes even now, that he’d probably recognize anywhere. Akaashi has this way of speaking sometimes like he’s trying to construct a puzzle with his words, cryptic, challenging. If Bokuto’d had a few more years of practice instead of the yawning chasm between the _then_ and _now_ , he thinks maybe he might have finally figured out how to decode it all, but he finds that he’s still at square one, maybe _back_ at square one after letting himself get rusty, and it bothers him now more than it used to that he can’t catch onto what Akaashi’s dangling in front of him. 

It takes Bokuto a moment to realize that they’ve stopped walking, and when he looks up, he finds himself at the base of the stairs leading up to the platforms of the train station. He swallows thickly, feeling keenly like some kind of timer is quickly running out.

“Well, this is me,” Akaashi says quietly, taking a couple of the steps in one long stride. He pauses and turns halfway around again to say, sounding like he really means it for maybe only the second time all night, “Thank you for walking me. It was nice seeing you again.”

Bokuto nods, shoving his hands into his pockets, feeling fidgety and awkward. “Yeah,” he says, “Always.”

It’s something he used to say to Akaashi all the time. _Always_ , walking all the way home with him after practice even though Bokuto lived five minutes closer to campus. _Always_ , bringing an extra pair of gloves to school in the winter because Akaashi had a bad habit of forgetting his. _Always_ , staying the night when both of Akaashi’s parents had to work late or were on business trips and Akaashi would be all alone in that big house, never admitting he was lonely but lonely all the same. He’d really thought that he’d meant it then, and he probably did, in a way, but he wants to say that he gets it now, gets what the weight of that promise really is, gets that just the promising of it isn’t enough. But Akaashi’s already turning back around, and Bokuto’s left feeling a little like he’s just half a step too slow.  
  


* * *

  
Bokuto doesn’t remember a lot about that first year out of high school, the whole thing a blur of trying to kickstart his career as a professional volleyball player, but he remembers still the last time he saw Akaashi in person. It had been the evening before that year’s Interhigh qualifier finals, picking him up from school and, when he’d burst into the gym that Friday afternoon, getting to see that open-mouthed surprise on Akaashi’s face that Bokuto so rarely got to see, because Akaashi was the kind of person who always seemed to know everything. The whole walk home that day, Akaashi had been quiet and anxious, and Bokuto remembers trying to come up with as many things to talk about as he could, as many wild stories as he’d collected just to put something else in the space between them than the nerves threatening to drown Akaashi right then and there. When they’d gotten to Akaashi’s house, Bokuto had peered past him and seen all the dark windows and something about that had hurt in a way he hadn’t expected, hadn’t known how to react to.

“Your parents not home?” Bokuto had asked, and he’d noticed the way Akaashi’s mouth pulled down, just a tick. 

“Mom’s traveling and dad’s working late,” Akaashi had said, and he’d had this way of saying it like it wasn’t a big deal, like he’d practiced it, like he’d gotten used to it.

Bokuto had grinned then, wanting to do anything to get the pinched expression off of Akaashi’s face. “Movie night then?” he’d offered. “You can’t possibly tell me you have work to do tonight.”

They’d had this sort of tradition, and Bokuto had never been sure who exactly started it (maybe it was Akaashi, whose parents collected old movies, or maybe it was Bokuto, whose older brother worked in film), but before big tournaments, they’d tend to wind up at each other’s houses, spending the night eating takeout and watching bad horror films and making fun of the campiness of it all until they passed out. Bokuto had never been sure, really, why Akaashi had agreed to it in the first place, but Bokuto insisted every time, knowing, somehow, instinctively, ever since their first handful of times playing in practice matches together that Akaashi was the type of person whose gears spun so quickly that they’d sometimes careen out of control if he wasn’t careful. And maybe it was a silly thing, because even at eighteen (at seventeen, at sixteen) Bokuto had known that it wasn’t like he was going to fix everything with this one odd ritual, but it made Akaashi laugh. Bokuto had liked it when Akaashi laughed, liked it when he made it happen. 

Akaashi had looked at him for a long time like he was searching for something, the warm wash of evening light bathing him in gold. A flutter of Akaashi’s long eyelashes against his sharp cheekbones, long shadows stretching out behind them. A bell tolling in the distance like a timer counting down. 

“Okay,” Akaashi had said, and back then, it had felt like a win.

They’d made it through two movies by the time Akaashi’s father had arrived home and were halfway through their third when Akaashi asked if he just wanted to spend the night since it was getting late already, and Bokuto had supposed that he’d never really meant to go home that night anyways. So he’d stayed, lying on his stomach in the middle of Akaashi’s big bed, squished up next to him with Akaashi’s iPad propped up against the headboard, until Akaashi had started fussing at him twenty minutes shy of the end of the movie and insisting that he had to go to bed or he’d be too tired in the morning. Akaashi always hated mornings. 

As Bokuto had settled into sleep that night, he’d looked over at Akaashi beside him and there had been a moment where Bokuto felt all disjointed and out of place. In the morning, Bokuto wouldn’t be going to the big gymnasium downtown with the high ceilings and bright lights. The team he’d still sometimes thought of as his didn’t even exist anymore. Akaashi laid on his stomach next to Bokuto, chin propped up on arms folded across his pillow, eyebrows drawn together as he’d stared at nothing, and Bokuto used to try to say something reassuring, because he really had felt invincible when they played together, but he’d known it’d just feel hollow and flimsy now. Bokuto couldn’t promise because he wouldn’t be there, and if he wasn’t there, well, he didn’t really know what to make of it. 

“Hey Akaashi?” Bokuto had said instead. When Akaashi had turned to rest his cheek on his arms and look at Bokuto, Bokuto remembers asking, on a whim, more to try to pull Akaashi out of whatever rabbit hole he’d gone down than anything else, “Do you think we still would’ve been friends if one or both of us didn’t play volleyball?”

Akaashi had been quiet for a long moment, considering. “Probably not,” he’d said finally. He’d offered a small smile like an apology for something he hadn’t said. “I probably wouldn’t have come to Fukuroudani if it weren’t for volleyball.”

Bokuto had perked up then, rolling over onto his side to look at Akaashi more properly. Akaashi had left a crack in the curtains pulled across his window so the morning light would wake him and he wouldn’t oversleep his alarm, and the streak of pale moonlight that filtered through bounced off of Akaashi’s messy hair, the silvery-blue of his eyes, the soft, sweet curve of his mouth. Akaashi had been one of the only students in his year to get recruited for the team, and that fact alone hadn’t been all of why Bokuto had been so intrigued by him even on that very first day, but he’d remembered being impressed. 

“You must’ve been really good in middle school, right, to get a recommendation?” Bokuto had said brightly. “I bet you got invited to all sorts of schools.”

Akaashi had laughed, sounding a little surprised. “Just a couple,” he’d said, self-assured but modest, and always, Bokuto had thought, just a touch too unaware of everything he had to offer. 

“Why’d you choose Fukuroudani?” Bokuto had said, and it had surprised him that he’d never thought to ask before, that he’d always taken it as a given that Akaashi would always have wound up at the same place as him. 

There had been a long silence that stretched out between them then, significant but not necessarily heavy, like it was just breathing room. Bokuto remembers Akaashi looking at him very intently, mouth pressed into a thin line like he was trying to decide something, like this was a question he’d never had to have an answer to before. Back then, Bokuto had been certain that Akaashi would tell him what it was, if not right then and there, then someday. Akaashi never lied, not to him. 

“I guess,” Akaashi had said softly, his voice coming out barely over a murmur. “I guess there was something here that I wanted to be a part of.”

Bokuto hadn’t quite known what he’d meant then, but he had known that whatever it was, it was a good thing, something to be tucked away and puzzled over later. It made his chest feel full and light, and he’d beamed at Akaashi, not knowing how to make himself do anything else. 

“Yeah, like crushing it at nationals, right?” Bokuto had said, earnest and excited and remembering what it felt like to stand on top of the world. 

Akaashi had laughed again, a little gentler this time, like there was a secret hidden in there somewhere. “Yeah,” he’d said, “Something like that.”

Thinking back, Bokuto sometimes wonders if he’d had a feeling, then, that something was going to change, sometime, somehow, because he remembers a strange, anxious feeling setting up shop in the pit of his stomach like he was standing at the edge of a cliff. He remembers looking at Akaashi and thinking _this will never happen again_ , thinking _this is the last time_. Akaashi’s last summer. The last warm night in June they’d spend making fun of laughably fake blood splatter while fighting over takeout from the place with the good meat buns just down the street. There’d be winter, maybe, the Spring Tournament, but it had all felt so far away that Bokuto had felt like he couldn’t find a solid handhold anywhere. 

“Hey Akaashi?” Bokuto had said out into the quiet room, his voice coming out a little smaller than he’d meant for it to.

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi had answered like he did every time Bokuto asked.

“I’m really glad I met you,” Bokuto had said softly, and he’d thought to himself then that he’d meant this more than maybe anything else he’d said that night, maybe more than anything ever. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

Another moment of quiet settled gently between them like first snowfall, comforting and cozy and soft, and there had been this look on Akaashi’s face that Bokuto couldn’t find the name for, something tender and warm and maybe a little surprised. And then Akaashi had blinked and smushed his face into his arms and laughed, shoulders shaking, and Bokuto had wondered, just a little, why Akaashi didn’t laugh like that all the time.

“Me too,” Akaashi had said, murmured into the crook of his own arm, and even though Bokuto could only just see Akaashi peeking up at him, he could tell that Akaashi had been smiling still.

Bokuto had wanted to believe that things could stay that way forever.  
  


* * *

  
“Hey Akaashi?” 

The words escape Bokuto before he can really stop them, but maybe, he thinks to himself, maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe all the thinking about this all has made it worse. Maybe he always should’ve stuck to his instinct to act first and think up the reasons later. Maybe it would’ve felt a little more honest, more real. 

Akaashi stops and turns back around, just three steps up from Bokuto. He’s taller than Bokuto like this, and the lights from the station glow around his messy black hair. Bokuto smiles, as warm as he knows how despite the thudding of his heart against his ribcage. 

“Is it okay if I call you some time?” Bokuto asks, a little quieter than he means to. 

There’s a flash of something that flits across Akaashi’s face, so quick Bokuto can’t quite tell what it’s supposed to be, and then Akaashi smiles a little, though it’s more like a smirk, more teasing, less serious. 

“I don’t recall you being the type of person who needed to ask for permission to do something twice,” Akaashi says, noncommittally, his tone a little lighter than before. 

Bokuto beams, sticks his chin out and rolls his shoulders back. “Well, maybe there’s stuff you don’t know about me anymore either,” he says. 

Akaashi laughs quietly, just under his breath. “Maybe,” he agrees softly. 

Part of Bokuto wants to pump his fists and celebrate, because it’s not quite a yes, but it’s not a no either, and if it’s not a no, then maybe there’s something Bokuto can still salvage from the remnants of what used to be. But the other part of him, maybe the bigger part, knows that for however nice and polite Akaashi’s being, for however much conscientiousness he’s trying to project out into the world, there’s something about this whole thing that isn’t sitting right with him. There’s something — the way Akaashi’s carrying himself around Bokuto or the precise, careful tone his voice keeps slipping into or just the way Akaashi’s looking (or not looking) at him — something that’s setting Bokuto’s teeth on edge. And he realizes then, all of a sudden, that it’s because this whole night, he hasn’t been sure anymore that Akaashi really wants to hear the things that he has to say, that Akaashi is doing anything more than humoring him, for old times’ sake maybe. His posture is too deliberate, always angled slightly away from Bokuto instead of facing him head on. His tone is too formal, like he’s just searching for the appropriate things to say rather than the things he means. The look in his eye is too distant, like the years between them are trying to make themselves clear. It makes Bokuto’s tongue feel heavy in his mouth and something almost painful tug at his chest.

“Hey Akaashi?” Bokuto says, a little quieter now, more tentative. Akaashi looks at him sidelong, and Bokuto feels his heart leap into his throat. “Do you… not want to be friends with me anymore?”

The thought rattles Bokuto down to his bones. It’s something he’s never considered before because it’s never seemed possible, because when he’d said forever he’d meant _forever_ , even through the lost years between them, but he looks at the downward slant to Akaashi’s mouth and feels so acutely the wide gulf between them even though Akaashi’s only a few steps away that Bokuto thinks, _maybe_. Maybe. It scares him in a way he’s never been scared by anything before. 

Akaashi takes a slow, measured breath and smiles that sad smile at Bokuto again. Akaashi never looked at him like this in high school, Bokuto thinks to himself, and then immediately realizes that isn’t true. There was once, Bokuto remembers, at the end of Bokuto’s second year, Akaashi’s first year, when the team had crashed and burned in the quarterfinals of the Spring Tournament, and Akaashi had looked at Bokuto and said, _there’s always next year._ Akaashi had smiled then ( _it’s fine_ ) but it had looked so sad that Bokuto had thought to himself that he had to make sure that Akaashi would never look at him like that again ( _it’s not fine_ ). He’s broken all kinds of promises to Akaashi, Bokuto thinks to himself, spoken and unspoken. 

“It’s not that,” Akaashi says slowly, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak any faster. That sad smile is still on his face. “I just grew up. I’ve learned how to take care of myself better, that’s all.”

Bokuto blinks. “Huh?” he says, confused and anxious and hearing a thread of desperation starting to seep into his voice. For whatever reason, this feels like his last chance to do things right.

Akaashi takes a deep breath and turns to fully face Bokuto, twisting his fingers together just a little, restlessly in a way that Bokuto knows, in this case, is more than just force of habit. Akaashi meets Bokuto’s eyes without wavering, but Bokuto doesn’t know anymore how to read the look Akaashi’s giving him. He feels like his lungs have been punctured and all the air is slowly leaking out until there’s nothing left

“You know when you’re a kid,” Akaashi says quietly, a barely perceptible wobble sneaking in between the syllables, “And for your birthday, your parents get you your favorite chocolate cake? It’s your favorite cake in the whole world, and you know that if you eat too much of it, you’ll make yourself sick, but it’s your favorite, so you eat too much anyways.” 

Bokuto can barely hear Akaashi over the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears. He vaguely recalls telling Akaashi the story of his seventh birthday once, when he’d eaten a whole cake for breakfast despite his parents’ warnings and spent the rest of the day in bed with a stomach ache, but it’s been years and years and it was just some offhand thing he’d said on a long bus ride to pass the time. 

“If you knew,” Akaashi says meaningfully, “That every time someone put that chocolate cake in front of you, you’d make yourself sick, don’t you think that at some point, you’d try to stop putting yourself in that situation?”

Bokuto stares, his eyes wide, and he has no idea what he’s supposed to say to that, what Akaashi wants him to say. He’d sort of known, because it had felt obvious, that the way they both sort of fell out of touch with each other must’ve been a difficult thing, because it’s impossible not to feel the weight of that absence when someone has been so much a part of your life for so long, but as he listens to Akaashi, he thinks to himself that he missed something, something important. 

“Wait,” Bokuto says slowly, willing his mind to work faster, to catch up with wherever Akaashi is. “Am I the cake?”

The moment he says it, Bokuto realizes that of course that’s how it is. He thinks about the whole night, about the deliberate way Akaashi’s held him at arm’s length, about the way that despite that, Akaashi still seems to know so much about him. Bokuto hasn’t really had a chance to catch Akaashi up on everything that’s happened in the past few years, but it’s almost like he doesn’t need to. And it’s probably that Bokuto had gotten so used to Akaashi knowing everything back in high school that he didn’t even question it, that it didn’t occur to him that it would’ve been fully reasonable if Akaashi had no idea what was going on in his life, if Akaashi didn’t know that he’d gone pro, if Akaashi didn’t know little details about Bokuto’s career, how it’s going, who his teammates are. But Akaashi does know, and maybe that was a hint too, a test to see if Bokuto would even notice, like Akaashi doesn’t believe anymore that he’s someone Bokuto would pay such close attention to. Bokuto feels like his heart is about to burst. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says quietly, and he takes everything back. _This_ is the most scared he’s ever been in his life. “Did I hurt you?” 

Akaashi lets out a soft laugh, but he’s clenching his fingers together so tightly that his knuckles are white. “A little,” he admits, and it strikes Bokuto suddenly that it would’ve been so easy for Akaashi to lie, that he could’ve easily deflected and brushed it all off as nothing, but Akaashi is still Akaashi at the end of the day, and the knowledge makes Bokuto’s whole body hurt. “But that was a long time ago. I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”

 _But I want to_ , Bokuto wants to say, the words stuck to the roof of his mouth, refusing to come out. Bokuto looks at Akaashi, looks at that sad, sweet smile ( _it’s fine_ ), looks at the way Akaashi’s posture is drawn tight like a bow ( _it’s not fine_ ), and he thinks to himself that there’s no end to what he’d do if he could be sure that in exchange, Akaashi would never look like that again. Bokuto thinks about all the times he forgot to text Akaashi back, all the missed lunches and invitations to get coffee and promises of _next time, I swear_ until the invitations stopped coming because Bokuto had been too focused on the one thing he’d set his mind towards and forgot to leave room for anything else. Bokuto thinks about how a handful of days between messages turned into a few weeks turned into half a year until too much time stood between them, and Bokuto hadn’t known how to pick up his old life again. He’d blamed lots of things over the years – the busyness of trying to make a name for himself, the mad scramble of trying to make the national team, moving and traveling and Akaashi no longer being within arm’s reach – but he knows, so acutely in this moment, that none of that should have mattered. 

Bokuto wonders if all those times, Akaashi looked like this. He wonders if all those times, Akaashi kept telling himself the same thing ( _I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine_ ). He wonders what Akaashi thought about him, what he didn’t think. He wonders if it’s too late to take it all back. 

Akaashi clears his throat and says quietly, “Goodnight, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto’s hand shoots out to grab Akaashi’s arm before he can think to stop himself, something desperate and urgent rising high in his throat. Akaashi freezes and stares at where Bokuto’s fingers have closed around his slender wrist, and Bokuto can feel Akaashi’s pulse drumming against his fingertips, rapid and erratic. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, almost reverently, and Akaashi looks up at him, eyes wide like he’s seen a ghost. There’s something that slots into place then, a kind of understanding of all the little things in his life that never quite made sense – the way Akaashi always cheered Bokuto up just by being there, the way Bokuto would look at Akaashi sometimes and forget about everything else except for trying to make him smile, the constant need to reach out, toying with Akaashi’s fingers during boring team meetings or leaning his head on Akaashi’s shoulder on the bus ride to matches or stealing half-eaten popsicles from Akaashi’s grasp in the hot summer months, fingertips brushing. There’s a kind of recognition of the ache Bokuto can see just behind Akaashi’s eyes, like poking at an old wound. He gets it, all of a sudden, the piece of the puzzle that he’s been missing, and says, “I broke your heart, didn’t I?”

Akaashi just looks at Bokuto, the answer written plainly in the tenseness in his jaw, in the way his hand shakes, just a little, in Bokuto’s grasp. He doesn’t have to say anything, but he lifts his shoulder in a small shrug and says, like he’s trying to convince himself of it, “There was always going to come a day when you didn’t need me anymore. I think a part of me always knew that. It just took me a while to really get what that would mean.”

Bokuto lets out a startled laugh, unable to stop it from escaping, because he’s suddenly realizing how easy this all could’ve been if he hadn’t gotten in his own way, if Akaashi hadn’t done the same. The sound surprises Akaashi, making him flinch a little, and Bokuto laughs again, a little warmer, relieved, realizing that this is probably the first and only time in his life he’ll ever beat Akaashi to the punch, that he’ll solve a puzzle before Akaashi does. 

“But I did _want_ you,” Bokuto says softly, earnestly, because if he can’t be honest now then he has no right to go around asking Akaashi to accept him back into his life. “I wanted to call you, Akaashi. Like _really_ wanted to, maybe too badly. And I think that was kind of the problem, because, you know, I get tunnel vision a lot and I lose track of things, and I know that’s not an excuse and I know I’ve been a shit friend, and I’d totally get it if you never wanted to see me again, but I just wanted you to know. I think… I think I sort of knew I’d fucked up, and I wanted to fix it and I wanted to get it right, because you always got things right, and I wanted, I don’t know, to be good enough for you or something.” Bokuto pauses to take a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart. “I got scared, Akaashi. And I’d never been scared of anything before. I didn’t know what to do. So… I ran away. I’m sorry.”

Akaashi stares at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted in surprise. Akaashi stares and stares and stares, and Bokuto wants to shake him, wants to demand answers, wants him to say anything at all, even if it’s that he hates Bokuto now and wants nothing to do with him. But he supposes that it isn’t really about what he wants anymore, because even though Akaashi said that it wasn’t anyone’s fault, really, that this is just a thing that happens sometimes – growing up, growing apart – because even though Akaashi left it up to him earlier, saying that Bokuto could call if he wanted, the more Bokuto thinks about it, the more he thinks that Akaashi is wrong. If Bokuto were to look back on all the times he could’ve done something and just didn’t, he’d lose count in an instant, and after all that, he thinks, it’s got to be Akaashi. It’s probably true that after some time, they both stopped trying, because some things just feel too hard, because they both got busy, but Bokuto thinks that it always would’ve been just a little more his fault, because he left first. 

Akaashi lets out a shaky breath, blinking over and over and over again, and it takes Bokuto a second to realize that Akaashi’s eyes have gone a little wobbly and glassy. “It’s not that easy, you know,” Akaashi says, just above a whisper, and Bokuto isn’t sure if he’s saying that to Bokuto or if it’s a reminder to himself. 

Bokuto smiles. “That’s okay,” he says gently, trying to remember everything he’s learned the past few years about being a softer person. “Nothing I ever wanted was easy.”

Akaashi lets out a breath that ends in a small laugh, and Bokuto thinks that he’s starting to look a little more like the boy he fell in love with without realizing it back in high school. The expression on Akaashi’s face is a little softer now, a little fonder, even though he’s still got this look in his eye like he doesn’t quite want to let himself believe Bokuto, like he’s hesitating to throw everything behind what Bokuto’s saying like he almost never did all those years ago. Bokuto supposes he probably deserves that, if that’s the way it’s going to be from now on. Empty promises are a hard thing to come back from. 

Akaashi looks back down at the hand Bokuto’s still got closed around his wrist and eases himself free of Bokuto’s grip. There’s about half a second where Bokuto’s stomach drops and he thinks _this is it_ , thinks _it’s over_ , but then Akaashi takes Bokuto’s hand in his own, turning it palm up to run his fingertips across the hard-earned calluses there. Akaashi’s own palms are smooth now, his fingers free of athletic tape, all the war wounds from his many hours of practice in high school long since faded into the past, but his hands are still careful and deliberate. 

Akaashi reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen, bowing his head a little to scribble something on Bokuto’s hand. Akaashi twirls the pen over his fingers once, twice after he straightens up and then slips it back into his pocket, curling his hand over Bokuto’s to close his fingers over his open palm. Akaashi’s hand is warm against Bokuto’s own in the cool air, and Bokuto wants, a little bit, to live in this moment forever. 

“Just in case,” Akaashi says, and even though he doesn’t quite move, Bokuto thinks he can see Akaashi hesitate, just for a moment. 

And then, almost so quickly that Bokuto hardly registers it’s happened until Akaashi’s already drawing away from him again, Akaashi leans in and presses a light kiss to the corner of Bokuto’s mouth. Akaashi smiles at Bokuto, and it’s still just a touch more distant than Bokuto’s used to, just a touch less warm than the last time they saw each other, but a little kinder, a little realer than earlier in the night, and Bokuto feels something warm and hopeful settle in his chest. 

“Goodnight, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says softly. 

This time, when he turns to leave, Bokuto lets him go, because this time, it doesn’t quite feel so final. This time, _tomorrow_ feels like it could still be his, if he were to reach out and take it, and for now, Bokuto thinks, that’s more than good enough. 

“Night, Akaashi!” Bokuto calls out to him. “Get home safe!”

Akaashi looks back over his shoulder at Bokuto for just a second before half-jogging up the rest of the stairs to catch the train that’s just pulling into the station, and Bokuto swears that Akaashi’s still smiling, just a little. When Bokuto uncurls his fingers and looks down at his palm, he finds a series of numbers written in Akaashi’s familiar and yet not-so-familiar swooping, slanted handwriting, and he smiles. Tomorrow.  
  


* * *

  
It goes a little like this: 

Bokuto calls Akaashi first thing in the morning the next day, bright and early, phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear, tracing his fingertip over the numbers still written in faded ink on his palm as he waits for his coffee to percolate. As the phone rings in his ear, he remembers just a second too late that Akaashi has never been an early riser and wonders idly if that’s changed at all. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that would change, but Bokuto’s wrongly believed that about a lot of things.

“Did I wake you?” Bokuto asks when Akaashi picks up, though his voice comes out about two shades too excited to sound quite apologetic. 

“No,” Akaashi says easily. Bokuto can hear shuffling in the background, wind blowing across the receiver maybe, and Bokuto wonders if he’s interrupting something anyways. “I have class soon, remember? Been up for a while now.”

Bokuto smiles, wondering if Akaashi still drags himself out of bed grumbling and irritable like he used to in the early mornings during training camps in high school. 

“Do you have to go?” Bokuto asks. “Should I call you back later?”

Bokuto can hear the sound of Akaashi breathing a little heavily, the faint sound of cars whizzing by on the street, and tries to picture Akaashi walking to class, shoulders hunched against the brisk morning air and all he comes up with is high school and Akaashi jogging up to meet him on the corner by Bokuto’s house to walk to campus together. 

“It’s alright,” Akaashi says quietly. There’s a beat and then he says, “It’s not like I’ve got anything better going on right now anyways.”

Bokuto laughs a little uncertainly, hoping that the edge he hears in Akaashi’s voice is just his morning crankiness and not something like reluctance, like this is just something to pass the time, like it could’ve been anything that occupied him on his way to class this morning. Bokuto’s coffee maker clicks, and he opens up his kitchen cabinets to grab a mug, hesitates a moment, then takes a deep breath. 

“What’re you doing tonight?” Bokuto ventures, finding himself squeezing his eyes shut like he can block out bad things from happening. 

A pause, and then Akaashi says, “Writing. My senior thesis is due soon.”

Akaashi’s words come out a little more clipped this time, like he’s still being a little cautious, and Bokuto has never wanted to prove Akaashi wrong more. 

“Do you have time for dinner?” Bokuto asks, hopeful, replaying the events of the night before over and over in his head. It’s okay, he thinks to himself, if the answer is no. It’s okay because it wouldn’t feel entirely like a permanent no, because last night, Akaashi left the door open, just a crack, and that’s enough. 

Akaashi hums. “If dinner comes to me, maybe,” he says after a long moment’s thought. 

Bokuto’s heart jumps in his chest. “I’ll pick something up,” he offers, trying not to sound too eager. He feels like he’s about to burst out of his skin and thinks to himself that he should probably skip the coffee this morning. “Text me your address.”

“You just want to see where I live,” Akaashi says flatly, but he doesn’t really (hopefully) sound like he means it.

Bokuto bites his lip, wondering if it’s possible to hurt yourself from smiling too hard. “Maybe,” he says, and then gets the treat of finally, finally hearing Akaashi laugh. 

It goes a little like this: 

That evening, when Bokuto shows up at his door with takeout and a wide grin, Akaashi lets him in. They eat dinner at Akaashi’s tiny dining room table that’s covered with thick books in languages Bokuto doesn’t know (books are meant to be read in the languages they were written in, Akaashi says, and Bokuto supposes he’ll just have to take Akaashi’s word for it) and papers filled with big, complicated-sounding words that Bokuto can’t even begin to understand and an assortment of handmade mugs, almost all abandoned, half-finished cups of tea. Akaashi’s apartment is small but tidy in the manner of the organized chaos Bokuto remembers from his room back in high school. There’s no discernable order that all his things are arranged in – a tangle of keys and headphones and a stray apple sitting atop a scarf and a neat stack of flyers advertising a speaker the literature department is hosting on his kitchen counter, teetering piles of books sitting next to a bookshelf filled with succulents in colorful pots and what looks like the mismatched pieces of three different board games and a single cracked picture frame, a pile of sweaters and a few scattered highlighters peeking out from under a couple soft throw blankets at the end of the couch – but Bokuto has no doubt in his mind that if he were to ask Akaashi to find any particular thing, he’d be able to locate it in a second. It’s comforting, Bokuto thinks to himself, to know that there are some things that don’t change. 

But of course, there are also things that do change, and Bokuto spends that day and every day after that for quite some time relearning so much of what he knows about Akaashi, about the years that have slipped by between them, meeting up with Akaashi every day he can after they’re each done with their respective classes or practices. Bokuto learns that almost all the dishware in Akaashi’s apartment are things that he’s made over the years, having picked up pottery three years ago as a hobby to keep those deft hands busy after giving up volleyball ( _If you see something you like, feel free to just take it_ , Akaashi says that first night when Bokuto stares in awe at everything Akaashi’s made, scattered all over his apartment. _I keep making more, and there’s only so many things I can give to my parents_ ). He learns that Akaashi has a tattoo, beautiful and geometric and crawling up the length of his arm, peeking out from beneath Akaashi’s rolled up sleeves one day when Bokuto picks Akaashi up from his university (Bokuto clamors to see it and then almost chokes when Akaashi says casually, like it’s nothing, _Maybe some other time. I’m not exactly keen on taking my shirt off in public_ ). He learns that Akaashi’s still every bit as sly and clever of a setter as he’s always been when he catches the tail end of one of Akaashi’s rec team’s games, only Akaashi’s nerves are less easily frayed now than he was at fifteen, at sixteen, at seventeen ( _Dude, I think you’re one of my least favorite setters to play against_ , one of the guys on the other team says to Akaashi, and Akaashi just smirks, prouder and more sure than Bokuto remembers).

It goes a little like this: 

Bokuto’s walking Akaashi back to his apartment one evening after dinner, maybe a handful of weeks after re-meeting him that night in that bar, listening as Akaashi explains to Bokuto, who hasn’t had a day of school since he graduated from Fukuroudani, with a startling amount of clarity what his senior thesis is about and the problems he’s been having with it lately, when it hits Bokuto, all at once, how much he wants to hang onto this forever. Bokuto thinks he gets it now, what a promise of forever actually means, what it takes, and as he looks at Akaashi, at the way the light catches on his messy waves of black hair, at the brightness in Akaashi’s eyes as he talks, Bokuto feels his heart ache, but it’s a good ache, mostly. Akaashi has slowly, slowly unfurled in front of Bokuto, a little bit more each day since that one night, chasing him down at the train station, and when Akaashi smiles now, it’s that smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth and makes his eyes curve into new moon crescents and a dimple press into his left cheek. Bokuto feels that same tug in his chest like he’s seventeen and sappy again and so, so in love with his best friend, only now, he thinks he might know how to put a name to it, what to do with it, if Akaashi will have him. 

Akaashi turns to look at Bokuto and asks, so much like he did back then, like he really cares, like he’s listening, “What are you thinking about?”

Bokuto blinks and looks away, down at the ground beneath his feet. They’re stopped at a crosswalk with streetlamps glowing around them, and it’s the first time he’s had to really answer that question in a long, long time.

Bokuto shakes his head and says, “It’s nothing.”

But then he peeks up and sees Akaashi raising an eyebrow at him, curious and maybe a little teasing ( _do you not trust me?_ ). When Akaashi looks at Bokuto now, he doesn’t look like he’s afraid anymore that Bokuto will disappear the moment he stops watching him, and Bokuto’s finding that Akaashi at twenty-two is steadier that he remembers, more solid around the edges somehow, and Bokuto still doesn’t know how to say no to him. 

Bokuto laughs and scratches at the back of his neck a little sheepishly, feeling pinpricks of heat pop up under his collar. “Um, well, I was thinking that I wanted to kiss you,” he says, a slight tremor of anxiety bubbling up beneath his skin. “But you know, I’m trying to be good and I know you might not want to rush into things, so—”

Before Bokuto can finish the thought, he feels himself being tugged forward by the collar of his shirt, and he stumbles about half a step, and Akaashi is kissing him. It’s slow and soft and lingers just long enough for Bokuto to feel like his whole body is filled with champagne bubbles, just not long enough to be everything Bokuto’s ever wanted. But Akaashi’s still close to him even as he pulls away, looking up at Bokuto with that heavy-lidded smile, warm and just a little bit wicked like he’s up to something, and Bokuto finds himself out of breath. 

“You know you can just ask, right?” Akaashi says, voice low. Bokuto shivers. “The worst I can say is no.”

Bokuto laughs again, and this time it comes out loose and free. “I think that’d kill me,” he says.

Akaashi laughs too like he can tell Bokuto’s maybe only half-joking. Bokuto thinks that if this is the way things will be from now on, he’ll probably never stop smiling. 

“Hey Akaashi?” Bokuto says softly. 

“Yes, Bokuto-san.” There’s a sort of knowing look in Akaashi’s eye. 

Bokuto flashes his most winning smile and asks, “Kiss me again?” 

Akaashi rolls his eyes like Bokuto’s being ridiculous, and maybe he is, but he’s probably always been a little ridiculous and Akaashi’s never seemed to mind, not back then and not now, leaning in to kiss him again anyways, one hand coming to rest at the back of Bokuto’s neck, the other still clinging to Bokuto’s shirt. It’s slower this time, like Akaashi’s trying to savor it, and he lets Bokuto settle his hands on his hips, the small of his back, lets Bokuto pull him a little closer, and Bokuto feels a little like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. It’s sweet and perfect and it still ends too soon, but Bokuto thinks to himself that if he’s very, very lucky, if he tries really, really hard, this might just be the beginning of forever.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote more than 10k's worth of fic about literally like. a single night lmao
> 
> I also reaaally can't tell if I rushed that ending or not but uh. whatever ‾\\_(ツ)_/‾
> 
> ANYWAY thank you for reading! and thank you in advance for any comments/kudos!
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](http://youichi-kuramochi.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/kura_ryous) for more yelling about these two


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